


Also a Time for Sleep

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Eliot has a cold, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 18:53:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18697273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: Eliot has a summer cold and can’t sleep; Quentin has a plan for sending him off to dreamland.





	Also a Time for Sleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dreamwvr73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamwvr73/gifts).



> This is to fill a prompt made by @dreamweaver73 on Twitter. I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun and to fill those empty spaces with words. I also don’t own the children’s book in this tale: credit goes to Margret Wise Brown. Kudos and comments are magic: enjoy!

“Q . . . I’m dying.” 

Quentin turned from the vanity in Eliot’s room, where he was examining some photos tucked into the mirror’s frame. Most of them were of Eliot and Margo during their first year, where they had formed a bond nearly without limits, one that Quentin envied. As a first-year magician, his four weeks in the Physical Kids cottage had resulted in a few casual friendships, but none like he desired with Eliot—talented, languid, beautiful, Eliot—someone who Quentin had never met the likes of before. Now, hearing his friend’s clogged declaration, he mentally added hopelessly dramatic to his list of Eliot Waugh descriptors. 

“El, you are not.” He brought Eliot a hairbrush and handed it to him. Eliot gave him a puffy-eyed squint, his cheeks and lips chapped with a summer cold. Tissues, nostrums and other items stood on the nearby nightstand, and Eliot set the hairbrush aside without much interest. He’d managed a hot shower and now sat propped up on a pile of silk pillows in a pair of satin red sleep pants and a matching silk dressing gown. “Come on . . . brush your hair out before it dries all matted.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“Then you really must be dying,” Margo drawled as she walked in with a mug of tea on a silver tray. Steam rose in small wisps from the lip. 

“Margo! Don’t tell him that!” Quentin fretted. 

“Oh relax, Coldwater, he knows it’s just a cold.” Margo set the tray across Eliot’s lap and picked up the brush. He made a sound of protest but Margo began to brush out his curls with almost businesslike strokes. “He just hates to have anyone see him looking less than perfect.” 

Margo . . .” Eliot groaned, and she set the brush down to run her small fingers through his hair. 

“Hush. Drink your tea . . . I put a shot of whiskey and some honey in it. It’ll help you sleep.” She rose from the bed and gave him a perfunctory peck on the temple. “I’ll be back once I make sure our first-years don’t set the common room on fire practicing their tuts.” 

Margo pulled the door shut as she left, and Eliot sipped the tea. The burn of the whiskey was pleasant, but he couldn’t taste the honey or the pekoe flavoring of the tea, and he set the mug back down. Quentin lingered near the bed like he was waiting for a bus but was unsure about whether he was at the right stop. 

“Shouldn’t you be studying?” Eliot asked, and Quentin pushed a lock of hair behind one ear. 

“I guess . . . I mean, I told Alice I’d probably go study with her, but it’s not like she needs my help at it. She’s already two chapters ahead in the Popper book anyway.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You should try and get some sleep, El.” 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’m so congested, and the stuff the healing students pass out for the common cold tastes like a donkey’s nutsac. I spend the day vomiting instead of coughing.” He gathered a few tissues, blew his nose, and dropped them into the trashcan nearby. 

“My mom used to sing to me when I was sick—before she and dad split, I mean. I would get sick a lot as a kid—ear infections, colds, stuff like that,” Quentin said. “Mom said it was because I was a preemie. But I remember she’d sing “Over the Rainbow” and the theme from Arthur. You know, the one about the moon and New York City?” 

“Mmmhmm.” Eliot nodded. “I didn’t have the most bucolic of childhoods, but sometimes my grandmother would read to me when I was sick. She lived with us until I was about seven . . . she died in her sleep one night.” A memory rose in Eliot’s mind, unbidden, past his fever-weak mental wards, of passing six-penny nails to his father in the barn while he constructed her coffin. 

“She sounds nice,” Quentin said, moving the tray and mug aside and tugging up the covers to Eliot’s lower chest. 

“I think she was the only person who ever cared about me back then.” He blinked, exhausted but still unable to let sleep claim him. Quentin stood. 

“Just try and rest, El. I’ll be right back.” 

Eliot heard the door hinge squeak as Quentin pulled it shut. He drifted on a feverish sea for a few moments, then the mattress tilted again. He stirred, startled, then realized Quentin was climbing into bed with him. He had a squat, thin cardboard book in one hand. 

“Quentin? What are you—” Eliot asked, then found his head resting in Quentin’s lap. His congestion made it impossible to detect Quentin’s familiar scent—leather, old paper and something like summer fruit—but his presence was calming, nonetheless.   
“Just try to rest.” Quentin’s left hand stroked over his hair, the movement awkward, but Eliot could sense the sincerity there. 

“Goodnight room,” Quentin said suddenly, and Eliot lifted his gaze to see that Quentin was reading from a book of the same title. “Goodnight room, goodnight moon. Good night cow jumping over the moon. Goodnight light, and the red balloon. Goodnight bears, goodnight chairs. Goodnight kittens, and goodnight mittens. Goodnight clocks, and goodnight socks.” Quentin’s hand stroked over his hair as he read, and Eliot’s eyes closed halfway. “Goodnight little cottage house,” he read on, adding words from their surroundings. “and goodnight mouse. Goodnight comb, and goodnight brush, goodnight nobody, and goodnight—” The sound of a flushing toilet from down the hall sounded out. “—uhm, goodnight flush!” Quentin improvised, paused as he sensed Margo in the doorway, but he didn’t move Eliot from his spot. “And goodnight to Margo, whispering ‘hush.’” He grinned a little at her startled stare. 

"Goodnight stars, goodnight air . . . “He turned the last page. “Goodnight magic noises everywhere.” He closed the book with one hand and glanced down to see Eliot asleep, his long, dark lashes laying against skin that was finally freeing itself of a fever grip. Quentin set the book aside, letting Eliot’s thick curls slide between his fingers. A murmured spell doused the nearby light and Quentin rested against the headboard so he didn’t disturb Eliot’s sleep. Margo smiled as she watched the young magician close his eyes, and murmured to him as she pulled the door closed. 

“Goodnight, Q.” 

FIN


End file.
